


Cleaned Up

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:54:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock requires John's medical attention. Thankfully, it's not nearly as bad as it looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaned Up

**Author's Note:**

> Based on prompts/requests from makingupachangingmind and whatever—remains on Tumblr

John didn’t remember passing out. He could barely put two thoughts together. But somehow, he understood that Sherlock’s voice was the one he was hearing.

“John, take my hand. I need to help you onto the sofa.”

_Blood. On Sherlock’s face. In his hair. So much blood. God, no. Sherlock, no.. not again._ John couldn’t get the thoughts in his fuzzy brain to form words just yet. He also still didn’t understand why he was on the floor, looking up at a bloodied Sherlock Holmes.

Droplets of blood fell from Sherlock’s face and hair; a few of them landed on John’s cheek.

“Sherlock… what have you…” That was all he could manage. He did, though, find the wherewithal to offer his arm and push up a bit with the little strength he had left in his legs.

Sherlock dropped him heavily onto the sofa, then he collapsed beside him. He looked at his watch.

“I expect you’ll recover momentarily. As these are likely superficial wounds, I’ll just wait, shall I? Let me see… ten minutes?”

Ten. _Sherlock. Injured again._ Nine. _But Sherlock is alive. He’s walking and speaking._ Eight. _Moriarty is out of the picture._ Seven. _Sherlock wasn’t taken away in an ambulance._ Six. _He chose to come here, not go to a clinic or hospital._ Five. _He’s being a condescending prick._ Four. _As usual._ Three. _He still needs medical attention._ Two. _You’re a doctor._ One. _He needs your help._

“Superficial, is it?”

“Ah, John. You’re back with us.”

“That’s a lot of blood for superficial.”

“It isn’t all mine.”

John looked at Sherlock, then looked back toward the door. “No. Of course not. What was I thinking?”

Sherlock leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. He reached out and clasped John’s hand. “You were thinking you’d seen me like this before, under much worse circumstances. I’m sorry to give you a shock like that, John.”

“Right. Yeah. Well. Shall we take a look? Light’s probably best in the kitchen. Come on, then.” John stood and led Sherlock to a chair, switching on the overhead light as he went. “Sit there, tilt your head back a bit, and do your best to remain still.”

Sherlock smiled. “Doctor John H. Watson, formerly of the Royal Army Medical Corps. So professional.”

“Doctor or not, I’ll still kick your arse if you turn up looking like that with no warning. That’s a promise.”

“Understood, Doctor. Has Mrs. Hudson been in?” Sherlock involuntarily turned his head to check for evidence of newly-cleaned surfaces or items put back a few millimeters from their original location.

“Oi. Hold still, Sherlock. I have to see if there are any cuts on your scalp.” John swallowed hard, thinking of the possibility that he would have to shave that lovely hair if stitches were required.

Sherlock let out a long, exasperated breath.

John’s fingers carefully wove in and out of Sherlock’s dark curls. Even like this, with blood beginning to dry in it, bits of gravel stuck here and there, Sherlock’s hair was able to make John Watson have… stirrings.

“Okay,” he said in a more breathy voice than he’d intended. ”Just a few minor scrapes. Looks like I won’t need to get my medical kit. We need to get this all clean though, make sure none of the debris ends up irritating the abrasions.”

“We? I believe I can manage a shower on my own, Doctor.”

“No, you can’t.”

Sherlock looked up abruptly, arching one eyebrow.

“You can’t see where the cuts are. I need to wash your hair for you.”

“John, I’m perfectly capable of using my sense of –“

“And you owe it to me. After that turn you gave me, walking in here like that.”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“All right.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Shut up and get your kit off, then. I’ll start running the bath.”

——

Steam rose up around Sherlock’s shoulders, neck and jawline as John ran the sponge lightly over the slightly-flushed skin.

Sherlock’s hair was clean, now, but it didn’t stop John pouring a bit more water over the crown of Sherlock’s head; he loved the sight of it trickling through the damp curls. John brushed a wet tendril away from Sherlock’s temple.

“God, you look gorgeous like this. That hint of pink to your skin… the way your hair clings to your face and neck… Dammit. You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Sherlock smiled wryly. “You have an excellent bedside manner, Doctor Watson. Or must we call it bathside manner?”

John huffed out a small laugh, then continued to glide the sponge along Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock caught John’s hand just as it passed over his heart. He turned and looked into John’s eyes.

“Thank you.”

John swallowed. “My pleasure.”

“I don’t mean for the bath, though, yes, thank you for this. I mean for everything. Every day, John.”

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips.

“Every day is my pleasure, too.”


End file.
